


Steamy

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F, the nudity is covert so not quite rated M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Mòrag, Brighid, and some time alone spent in their private baths.





	Steamy

**Author's Note:**

> in the end i wasn't quite sure what i wanted to do with this piece as a whole, so if it feels inconsistent that's my excuse

The water is steaming, piped straight from reserves within the Titan that never seem to run low in spite of everything. Mor Ardain’s water is too hot to use for agriculture, but at least it makes for good bathwater.

Mòrag leans back in the bath, allowing herself a single sigh to release the stiffness in her shoulders. Her ears are still faintly ringing from all the noise of the days— of the shouting and squabbling and laughter and meh-meh-meh’s. She likes their company. Really. But a night away from the rest, in the comforts of her own home, is a welcome opportunity she wasn’t just about to let slip past when they stopped over Alba Cavanich.

The bath, set into the floor, isn’t quite as large as the hot spring at Jakolo Inn, but it’s still more than large enough for Mòrag to leisurely stretch her legs out with plenty of room to spare. Short spouts run a quiet stream of water at the end of it, keeping the water faintly stirred as steam fills the spacious room.

A single knock at the doorway ripples through the stagnant tranquility of it. Mòrag lazily turns her head.

“Mind if I join you?” Brighid, clad in nothing but a short towel, is already stepping across the slate tiles.

“Please, by all means.”

Mòrag holds her breath as Brighid puts the towel aside and sits at the edge first, slowly easing her legs into the water. Brighid offers a reassuring smile to quell her worries— of course she’s always worried, because fire doesn’t mix well with water, naturally— and doesn’t move to completely enter yet.

“It’s been a while since we’ve used this bath, hasn’t it?”

“Mmh,” Mòrag hums. She turns herself around to rest her forearms at the edge of the pool, her elbow brushing up against Brighid’s thigh. “The servants were proud to inform me that they’ve kept the water clean, in my absence.”

“That seems like a wasted effort…”

“As long as they were allowed personal use of it themselves, I don’t see the problem.”

Brighid rests a hand on Mòrag’s head and gently runs her fingers through her damp hair. She pets her for a long moment, still adjusting to the water. “In spite of all your modesty, you’re still very much of royalty, aren’t you?”

Though she’s enjoying the petting, Mòrag frowns up at her. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. You’re just a bit spoiled, that’s all.”

Before she can offer an argument to that, Brighid slips into the bath to sit beside her, audibly exhaling as a fresh cloud of steam washes over them both. The water laps up against the tiles with her movements. Already, at the intense heat of her mere proximity, Mòrag forgets her comment and cautiously sits closer until their sides are touching. When Brighid leans against her, she takes that as her cue to put an arm around her shoulders.

“Are you alright?” she murmurs, rubbing Brighid’s upper arm.

“For now.” A pause. “Lady Mòrag…”

“Yes?”

“If I may.”

Rivulets of water drip down her body, quite literally steaming, as she slightly raises herself up to kneel over Mòrag’s lap. Mòrag’s lips slightly part in an expression of feigned surprise, her own hands betraying her act when they immediately move to touch her chest and waist, slippery beneath the water. They come to be more or less still on Brighid’s back. Her hair floats behind her, the tips dulled.

“You never need to ask for my permission for such things, Brighid.” Mòrag licks away the droplets that had gathered at the hollow of her neck.

“I just wanted to make sure you were in the right mood.” She hugs Mòrag close, secure upon her lap. That dull pain of being mostly submerged in the water is easy to forget when Mòrag is insistently kissing at her skin like that.

Hardhaigh Palace is built more like a military fortress than a palace for royalty, but bits of it like this had been spared the dull industrial aesthetic and given the comforts of fine luxury, fit for all the emperors and empresses who had lived here before. The steam swirls around their bodies as they press more tightly together. Around them, the water is beginning to boil. If Mòrag wasn’t already immune to being burned, it would be painful.

Brighid grasps the sides of her face and roughly kisses her without any other sort of prelude, eagerly squirming on her lap. Mòrag, equally enthusiastic, lets Brighid nip at her bottom lip before retaliating with her own. Those hands that had been firmly holding her head slip down to her shoulders.

When was the last time they were even given a moment like this, all to themselves?

To simply indulge each other at the base of the most carnal desires, to soak in and relish intimacy in its purest form…

Yes, Mòrag thinks to herself, everything is perfect in the world, just in this moment. It stretches on for who knows how long.

And then Brighid goes limp.

Curious, Mòrag stops kissing her. Brighid slips down on her lap until her forehead is pressed against her shoulder, and Mòrag thinks that that’s rather cute. She pats Brighid on the back.

“My, someone seems to have been struck with cold feet out of nowhere.”

Brighid groans.

Mòrag squints. She takes Brighid by the shoulders and tries to push her upright.

“Brighid?”

“Ahh… don’t mind me…” she slurs out. Her eyes are closed. Well— they’re always closed, so that part is irrelevant.

“… How long have we been in the bath?”

“Not sure…”

Oh, of course, they lost track of the time, and… when did the water stop boiling, come to think of it? Mòrag carefully quells down her alarm and shifts beneath Brighid, who is now lying on top of her with her full weight pressed down. Not that she’s particularly heavy, but.

She’s slippery.

“Brighid! The water!”

No verbal response, only a groan. Mòrag carefully hoists Brighid out of the bath and drags her up onto the floor, laying her out on her back. She brushes her hair from her face and lightly slaps her, kneeling. Sweating. “Brighid!”

“Nnngh.”

“Brighid! We do not succumb to defeat on the battlefield so easily!”

“Nnngh.”

“Stand your ground!”

“ _Lady Mòrag._ ”

Ah, there it is. Now that she’s out of the bath, her flames are returning to their usual light, though her skin continues to steam. Brighid’s eyes are still closed. Nonetheless, she reaches up to grab Mòrag’s face.

“Brighid?!”

“Stop talking. You’re ruining the mood.”

“You— would accuse _me_ of disrupting the mood?”

“I’ll admit that nearly passing out may have had a part in that.”

Mòrag leans back on her haunches with a sigh. Of course Brighid wasn’t in any actual danger. But, still. “I think we’re about done with our bath.”

“Oh? What happened to, ‘ _we do not succumb to defeat on the battlefield so easily’_?”

“There is no shame in fleeing from an insurmountable enemy.”

“The enemy, in this scenario, being the bathwater.”

“Yes.”

Brighid props herself up on her elbows, then manages to sit upright. She reaches out for Mòrag, expecting her to simply help her stand up, but— she always does things in spades, of course. Mòrag scoops her up to carry before Brighid even realizes what she’s doing. At this point, she can’t even tell if Mòrag is still being serious or not.

She kisses Brighid on the nose. Oh, so she isn’t. Probably.

“Careful, don’t slip on the tiles,” Brighid flatly says.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I may faint in your arms.”

“Hush. We’re not in the water anymore.”

“But we’re still wet.”

Mòrag pauses, and stares down at Brighid with the grave seriousness of someone who had just been warned of impending danger. Brighid stares back, her eyes closed as always, and then her expression cracks into a smile. She laughs and presses her face against Mòrag’s neck. This _fool_. She's making her steam all over again. “Nevermind.”


End file.
